Lifestyle:Sleep

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Dream a little dream of glee Laura Coope My heart softens a little at the mere thought, my lips twitch towards a loving smile, and my limbs fidget with anticipation. Even at my lowest ebb there is one concept that quickens my pulse. Sleep.

Admittedly not a universal adoration, my favour for shut eye is very prominent in my lifestyle, forty winks have the same effect on me as a cream cake or a cigarette has on you.

However, do not dismiss me as a lazy bed hog that sleeps to avoid lectures or facing the washing up. Sleeping may be my hobby, but dreaming is my passion.

Not so long ago I religiously kept a dream diary, this involved waking up at various stages of the night and noting my wondrous and inexplicable dreamings in a notebook hidden under my pillow. I adored the vulnerability of dreams, the knowledge that these nonsensical images were my true identity, that nobody could fight over them as I was the sole owner.

I believe it was the freedom that had me hooked, my inhibitions dissolved in the land of sleep. Going to the toilet in the middle of a grocery shop has no importance in a dream, wearing a string vest and woolly socks to graduation has no consequences and flying through tree tops eating hula hoops is standard form.

It was only recently I began to doubt my faith in dream state freedom. Obviously tense with the prospect of university, my afternoon naps became filled with a montage of blank, uninsperational images, flickers of grey walls and blurry essay titles became a regular repetition. It began to occur to me that such a personal, crucial aspect of my identity was being invaded by the mundane constrictions of everyday life. My most valued possession, my imagination was being pilfered and altered by an invisible thief.
This started to worry me. My dream diary was becoming a chore I resented, the pressure of my hours spent awake seeped in to my sleep and gave me reoccurring dreams, routine images and monotonous theme tunes filtered through my mind.

Slowly and steadily my cherished possessions, my dreams were being consumed, just like every other aspect of my life. I cannot find comfort in materials; they frustrate me further as I have an abundance of futile objects that cannot begin to compensate for my dwindling sleep content.
I still adore sleeping; I rest in the hope that my overactive emotions will once again penetrate my slumber and refund my stolen dreams.

© Laura Coope November 2003
Laura is a first year Creative Arts student at Portsmouth University
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